She didn’t let the painted smile falter, despite the surge of annoyance that came upon her. She wondered if he wore a chainmail hood under that helmet to protect a knife from slipping between the crevice there. Perhaps aiming for his thighs would be easier? They certainly looked less protected and there was that artery and– She had no intention of getting that close anyway and she’d been staring. She didn’t look away, even as she folded the papers she carried.

❝Very well, we’ll do today’s practice of redundancy early then, shall we?❞ She shrugged. She knew this wasn’t really going anywhere. ❝There are a few locations that would be good if you want a water approach at all. The Boomers have moved their plane to Hidden Valley now that the Brotherhood is gone, and–❞

She stopped, and frowned, her displeasure becoming plain. That one had been her decision. She’d told them to use the location without even asking anyone. She didn’t care. The rumors about the Boomer’s plane had gotten out. People would expect them from the North.

❝Should I bother to continue? Regardless of what I’ve done to help the Legion, you’ll ignore whatever I might suggest.❞ She wasn’t sure why she even really cared. She didn’t want a position of power in the Legion. She was planning on going North while they fought at the Dam.

What she had done for the Legion? Her, above the blood and sweat that Caesar had poured into its creation; the amalgamation of tribes, of investing his life in something he believed in. And Lanius, given a purpose by the very man who headed the villainized patriarchy--who had given everything to Caesar in payment for offering some- thing to fight for. Even the condemned Malpais Legate, and the scheming Vulpes Inculta had done more for the Legion than her. Yet here she stood, moaning about her accomplishments and desiring recognition for them. It was with these very words rather than her evident discontent that formed and solidified Lanius’ opinion of her. 

“Your purpose is to deliver information, not gripe and moan about your preconceived notions.” Came a rumble of a response. “It is not your place to determine and interject, or filter information through a coloured lens that would be your opinions. I did not ask for bias and complaint, nor did Caesar ask you to deliver the information as such.” She was not permanent--that much he could see by her lack of devotion and the displeasure in her features. His intrigue by her had been replaced with mistrust. Her information from thenceforth would be taken with a grain of salt and further reported. Enough of these games.

Edward pressed his fingers into his brow, trying in vain to stave off the sharpening pain of the ever-present ache in his head. He would push through it, as he always did, blinking away the fog and scorching heat for the good of the Desert. He saw his Praetorians glance at each other, eyeing the body but lacking the nerve to remove it in the presence of the Monster of the East.

Caesar’s monster. An excellent tool, an occasionally insightful man, but a terror nonetheless. More Vercingetorix than Pompeius Magnus. “It served to increase your reputation in the Mojave. The more this wasteland fears us, the quicker they will bend their knees to the Legion.”

“And incompetence can be unlearned. But how would you train them?” he asked, leaning back in the throne he’d conveniently designed to mask its ergonomic comfort beneath an intimidating facade of strength and power. He folded his fingers together in his lap, glancing from the kneeling man to the bloody pieces of an enemy strewn on the ground. “Our men are not limitless, and while they need a healthy dose of fear to maintain their loyalty, we need to temper it with awe and respect. Indiscriminate brute force might push them over the line into terror.” 

Think, he silently begged. Mold yourself into more man than monster. One day, possibly sooner than Edward would like to admit, this throne would belong to Lanius. Edward needed desperately for his plan for the Mojave to survive such a Caesar. He needed an Augustus to succeed him, not a Tiberius. A Malpais, rather than a Lanius. But he would make do. Caesar had molded an army of savages into a Legion of Rome. He could make this monster a man. “What is your strategy with them?”

So Caesar would have Lanius playing fetch across the wasteland and succeeding where a unit of armed men could not. His teeth gnashed together firmly as his nose wrinkled beneath the mien of a god. There was a vast difference between a unified party of warriors trained to fight than a discombobulated mess of children flailing their play swords about, feeling bold only due to the protective regalia that was only feared due to the man who started it all. Like a child stepping into a man’s shoes, they were a waste of space and effort if their only purpose was to lunge themselves into the jaws of death, rather than conquer where Caesar saw fit. That had been why he had hit a wall with New Vegas, and while Lanius was, indeed, the very epitome of what the west so feared about the east, quantity over quality in this pathetic arm’s race against the NCR would only get the Legion so far.

The monster released a sharp exhalation through his nasal channel. One that, within the shallow restrictions and stuffy confines of his helmet, betrayed something akin to restrained frustration. A weakness, and a glimpse of the man behind the monstrosity allotted only for the seated patriarch who waited so diligently for his butcher’s reaction in kind.

“A mind must be tempered before the sword.” Came a rumble of a response as the weighty blade came to rest by his own bent knee. “A test of loyalty and purpose; the awareness and the cost of betrayal.” The stony facade betrayed nothing of the distaste that remained laden upon his tongue--of the remembrance of his own birth by blood. The men he would train, if permitted, would endure the same.

“To turn children into men, and fanatics into disciples--to see your will done, and by fighting in your name rather than dying fruitlessly.” If he wanted the east to kneel, then Lanius would make it so. But to prevent uprising and to keep it beneath his thumb, Caesar required able bodies to keep his influence from stretching to thin. 

Lanius had little to no knowledge of whomever had been escorted into Caesar’s tent, however he had been the first and the last she would come face-to-face with within. The Legion’s figurehead had earlier retired due to unspoken illness, and whatever tactics or feats that garnered Caesar’s attention had long since been dismissed. Who, or what she faced now was far more terrifying than Caesar might ever be.

And there came the insult. Expected, but still annoying none the less. She could argue, a small part of her wanted to tell him just how much she’d done. How competent she was. Prove that she deserved more than this. But that same part also came with the desire to stab him in the neck to do that proving for her. She tilted her head a moment while she considered if she even could with all that armor. She sighed. Not the best thing to dwell on.

❝What do you think I’m doin’ out there? Runnin’ in circles for the hell of it? Gaandu.❞ She still kept the smile painted on, words polite, despite her anger. The insult slipped into the end in her other tongue. She paused. Professional response would be better. ❝Photos ED-E took, notes I’ve made, as well as ones stolen from the NCR– Yes, let’s ignore that joke– And compiled my own report same as I would’ve before.❞

The other reason why she didn’t understand why she’d been sent here: Wouldn’t it have made more sense for Vulpes to take the information and make it into something the Legate would actually use instead? That was the worst of it. It was perhaps a redundant task.

❝No use shootin’ the messenger. Been told it doesn’t work.❞

He cared not for her, or the effort she wasted in attempting to draw his ire. He would not be baited like many allowed themselves to be with a handful of venom-drenched words, for she served little to no purpose to him, and furthermore meant even less. He had no attachment to her--had no use outside what Caesar’s desire to keep her around as a connection to the west, 

“Summarize it.” He demanded therein, with little to no room for discussion. He did not have time to waste leafing through imagery and writings of a woman he did not trust. Truth be told, any lead that she might have given him thenceforth would have been reported back to Caesar before the Legion’s renown monster even considered deploying. Her word meant nothing to him; not when she could float between the east and west so easily. 

“Do not waste my time with this drivel--what is the importance of this?”

"Your men are incompetent.” Came a throaty, albeit hollow declaration as the severed skull of his latest hunt was vaulted across the canvas enclosure; a mess of flesh, matted hair and blood rolling to a stop at Caesar’s feet. “And this--” he punctuated via his movement into the tent, suggesting that the remains of the man amidst the dirt and sand on the ground had been the individual in question, “--this was a waste of my time.” 

But even despite his ire, however, Lanius’ hulking forward shifted. The renown, weighty set of armour collapsed towards the ground in a swift motion--the action smooth and soundless save for the rubbing scrape of metal on metal as his knee pressed into the dry earth beneath his feet. To bow--no, kneel before the man he served; the one who gave him purpose. For it was Caesar that he served, and not the Legion.

His commanding tone grated on her the moment he spoke. More orders. He had power and he knew it. A smirk masked the sneer that had gone to curl her lip. Better to seem arrogant than afraid. She had no desire to give him a weakness to spot.

❝Not even a ‘hello’, I see. Cheers to that.❞  The snark slipped out before she could stop herself, so she simply continued on, ignoring it and hoping he would too. ❝I’ve been told to deliver these to you instead of Vulpes, and answer any questions you may have.❞

She could deal with the head of the Frumentarii. They were alike enough that it was almost a fun game to banter with him. The Legate, however… She didn’t understand and it set her on edge. She held out the papers and the photos.

❝More intell.❞ Part of her wondered if she’d been sent to deliver them herself for the sake of having to stand there in her discomfort.

He had no desire to engage in any sort of conversation with her. Wasted words burned valuable time, and he needed not prove anything to her. She, like Vulpes, found solace in sweetly crafted poetry, and while Lanius was no stranger to the intricacies of words and their importance, actions always spoke much louder than they could ever dream imaginable. The pen was never mightier.

--But he would discuss where it was required. Lanius was no fool, and he would not charge headlong into battle without arming himself. 

@bellumdeus​

There were times she wondered why she’d become Caesar’s Courier instead of anyone elses’. Dealing with the Legate was always one of those times.

❝Legate. I’m to speak with you, apparently.❞ She managed polite this time, at least.

At her arrival, the Legate did not rise. He would not for any, save for Caesar’s presence, to which grew far more scarce with each passing day--away from the world he so desired to conquer due to illness he would not openly admit.

But it was in light of such an illness that Lanius began to inwardly question his decisions--not out of displeasure, but rather curiosity. His little courier, for an example. A woman of notoriety and vast import due to her connections, yes perhaps, but a woman nonetheless. Caesar placed some- thing of trust in her, it seemed, which was more than what could be said for any other woman that roamed the Legion’s current encampment within the Mojave.

Though despite the fact that Caesar placed his trust in her, that did not mean she had Lanius’ blessing. He was, however, intrigued in her untethered freedom. But nothing about his statuesque presence betrayed a hint of such.